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08-20-2015, 02:30 PM
“Of course.” She smiled, she reigned supreme, she dominated with fairy presence and fey essence, stared over the subject with shattering burdens and incomprehensible pain, then hoped and prayed she’d somehow be able to help him. Queen of sparrow song and laurel crowns, she conjured both hallelujahs and breadths of time, ignited them through her chest, a fluttering bird, a maelstrom of hours, a searing, scorching presence of sonnets and arias, sweeping hands and idle moments, ticking and borrowing and snatching, mellifluous, ardent, and echoing through the chambers. Compassion was a conviction, stored and recited and ignited past the warmed fronds of herbs and spices, amidst the gallivanting wind and snow, within the chilling confines of winter’s splendor or the dashing, flickering embers paying homage to a borrowed element: she closed her eyes and dreamed of a mind without sorrow, without melancholy, without frowns and worries, without deadened features immersed in affliction and regret. She thought of a passionate soul taut and rigid from their history, from their rue, from their rancorous efforts, and she imagined them whole, flaws forgotten, mistakes eager to be made anew. The maiden, the nymph, the sylph, basked in the alms and arms of her potency, until the last dovetail warbled and the last stroke of seconds and hours passed through the caverns’ wares, opening her eyes to regard him again. The Songbird dreaded the unknown; his wounds were not outward, but from within, and she couldn’t possibly know if she’d been successful, if his lacerations were cleared, unless he spoke, unless he claimed, they’d been wiped away. So, she only breathed, catching the puffs of air and relinquishing them back into the fold, away from her trances and her absolutions, waiting, staying, remaining poised and aloft in the clear, fleeting transience of virtue and benedictions. Her gaze regarded him carefully, and Imogen’s crafty stare remained sequestered upon his flesh too, until the mage spoke and grinned all over again. “Let me know if it didn’t work. Perhaps we could find another remedy for you.” Then she listened, cordial and quiet, as he marveled at the scent of the herbs, as he explained how he’d come to find dedication to this sanctum, this art. She knew of wars, she knew of battles, she’d crossed swords and hunted through fog, and still contained the bitter shame of it – but he wanted to amend, wanted to find salvation, wanted to alleviate all those torn days and shadowed seasons. Her smile faded, for a just a few precious seconds, crossing over her lips as a withering whim, capricious and mercurial, festering away at the hint of brutalities she’d displayed, she’d concocted, she’d enacted. But when her voice rang through the hall, it was just as bright, just as merry, just as beautiful and charming as it’d been before – without the barbs, the thorns, the nettles pressed around her throat. “One doesn’t need to be the kindest of hearts nor the sweetest of souls to heal. But they want to help, soothe, mend, and assuage the pain of others.” Eyes sparked back to his, grin repainted, intact. “Your willingness is already one trial triumphed. Would you like to experience some of our efforts, and see if its to your liking?” her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
@Mortuus Nox
